


Fidelity

by Scappodaqui



Series: Fidelity [1]
Category: Animorphs - Katherine A. Applegate
Genre: Aliens, Andalites, Angst, Angst and Humor, Body Horror, Canon Compliant, Canon Gay Relationship, Capitalism, Domestic, Gay Aliens, Gen, Human culture as explained by aliens, Humans Are Weird, Humor, In its truest sense, Interior Decorating, M/M, Misanthropy, POV First Person, POV Gafinilan, Satire, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-26 04:50:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9863651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scappodaqui/pseuds/Scappodaqui
Summary: We first meet Gafinilan and Mertil in Book 40:The Other.But how did they manage to survive that long? And how did trigger-happy Gafinilan learn to pass as a human?Gafinilan-Estrif-Valad narrates his harrowing tale of lifelong love and loyalty, fighter plane crashes, survival adrift on an alien planet, and churros.Now with an Andalite's advice on how to decorate a human domicile.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cavatica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cavatica/gifts).



My name is Gafinilan-Estrif-Valad. 

And I was about to die. More immediately than I had heretofore expected. It is true that I enjoy a phlegmatic outlook on death; after all, I carry a death sentence in my DNA. However, that did not prevent me from screaming. And it did not prevent my  _ shorm _ , Mertil-Iscar-Elmand, from reacting to my desperate thoughtspeak. 

The Yeerks’ Blade Ship had just cut one of my fighter plane’s engines away from the hull. The ship rocked, stalled--and plummeted toward the atmosphere of the blue and green planet we’d been orbiting. 

<Ahhh!>

So sudden! No time for the death ritual. A pilot’s reaction is his blade. It must cut faster than thought. I reacted--too slowly! I managed to direct power to my single remaining thruster. This sent my craft in a wild, looping spiral. It probably saved me from further damage, as I do not believe the Yeerks could sight on such an erratically moving vessel.

But Mertil could.

Mertil is an excellent pilot. One of the best. A credit to the Andalite military. 

Nonetheless what he did next would have brought great shame upon him, if anyone had lived to tell of it.

His ship moved out of formation! Toward mine. No one but Mertil could have aimed so precisely. No one but Mertil could have linked his ship’s wing with mine. He angled our descent so that instead of burning through the atmosphere and crashing into the planet’s large ocean, we skimmed over its surface. 

Above: the red beams of Dracon fire from the Blade Ship and the answering green beams from the Dome Ship. We were moving so swiftly I almost did not see it… until I did. The Dome, the last piece of the homeworld we carried with us, separated from the ship. Plummeted into the ocean. But no time, no time to think of what that might mean. Instead… 

The calmly rippling blue of the ocean beneath us seemed endless. The featurelessness of its surface gave the false impression that our interlocked fighter planes were not moving quickly. But we were! We screamed through the sky, bearing down on the nearby continent. A tiny margin of light-colored beach gave way to a glinting city and then, beyond it, trees… 

Mertil was too busy interacting with his ship’s computer to thought-speak, but I could, as always, feel the impression of his mind. He wanted to attain the treeline! He thought that he could slow our descent in time. The forest approached quickly.

Too quickly.

Our race naturally seeks refuge in nature. A cruel irony, in this case.

Landing! The nose of Mertil’s craft tipped lower than mine because of the angle at which he had engaged my wing. Too low! It caught--flipped--tore free--

I tumbled end over end. I caught dizzying glimpses of the surroundings as I rolled to a stop. Glimpses of a sky so pale blue it could not be real, and then trees that were a dark dark green. There was the shearing sound of metal, and agony echoed in my head. Not mine. Mertil--

The pain caused me to lose consciousness. Pain--

Mine? 

His?

I regained consciousness. My ship had broken apart. The ship’s computer calmly informed me that both engines had been destroyed. Life support was no longer functional. Z-space thrusters disabled. Shredders disabled. The loud beeping sound that indicated the airlock was open began. I shut it off. 

Silence. The noisy landing had likely caused native fauna to evacuate the area. 

I hoped it had not had the opposite effect on any nearby Yeerks.

Mertil.

_ Pain. _ Mine? His? 

I was growing used to pain in my joints and muscles, an irony because I am more powerfully-built than most of my species. It is in fact this very hypertrophy that can indicate disease. A once-beneficial adaptation with a sinister face. You see, damaged muscle will tend to grow. My muscles are damaged frequently. So are my tendons and my nervous system. As my illness progresses, the electrical impulse within muscle and nerve will become more and more erratic. It will cause problems with coordination and even focus of the eyes.

I have mentioned that I have a genetic disease.  _ Soola _ ’s disease is a progressive ailment. Due to the Andalite military’s need for active combattants, the usual compulsory retirement for  _ Soola _ sufferers at age 7 had been remanded. 

Had the disease slowed my reflexes?

Had it caused the moment of hesitation that allowed the Yeerks their shot?

I will never know. But this question will haunt me, I believe, for the rest of my days.

I was trapped beneath a large piece of the ship’s outer hull. There were burns down my flanks and legs. One leg had blistered from the hoof to the hock. The flexible bottom of my hoof winced in pain when I tried to move it. My ribs made a crackling sound as I breathed. My hearts beat quickly, but regularly. 

It was difficult to maneuver myself out from under the metal. The silence had become unnerving; I could not feel even Mertil’s presence in my mind. Could not feel--even sleeping I knew when he was there. Even--

My breathing grew rapid. My heartbeats increased their rate. 

_ Be calm, Gafinilan-Estrif-Valad _ , I admonished myself. I am not the most skilled at maintaining composure.  _ Be calm _ . 

I was too large to escape from underneath the piece of hull that trapped me. But it was not braced on my body. Instead, it lay athwart a sturdy section of the ship’s outer engine, creating an empty space into which my lower body was wedged.

I focused on one of the two morphs I had acquired in school: the  _ kafit  _ bird. 

I shrank. Falling! It felt like I was falling! It had been so long since I had morphed I had forgotten the sensation. I focused myself on the bird. On the beak. The feathers. The six wings. When I opened my eyes again I was a  _ kafit _ . I could see further into the ultraviolet spectrum than usual, though I missed my stalk eyes. Other, delicate senses told me the direction of the wind; the sense that tells the  _ kafit  _ where to migrate, however, was puzzled. Naturally its orientation toward magnetic polarity only works on the homeworld. I did know this: the bird body did not like being trapped underneath this large piece of metal. It wanted sky. I hopped out from beneath the encumbrance, flapped, and took off.

It was not hard to find the direction in which Mertil’s ship had gone. My ship had skidded further, past the place where Mertil’s had slammed into the ground. I followed the trail of broken trees and flattened foliage back to where he had crash-landed. I could not hear his voice in my head. But I knew he was alive.

What I noticed first was that the ship had been destroyed. Crushed. The proud arc of its stinging Shredder cannon, back-mounted in imitation of our own Andalite tails, had been twisted and melted beyond recognition. The cockpit bulged inward unnaturally. But unlike my ship, Mertil’s had not spontaneously opened its airlock. I landed, fluttering all of the  _ kafit _ ’s wings in agitation as I did. I demorphed. 

Naturally I had the code to Mertil’s ship. It was his highest driftball score, 8312. He selected this password after I complained that I could not remember the complex algorithm he originally used. I am sure he chose the number specifically because my own best driftball score is quite a bit lower. Driftball, after all, is a tactical game that relies upon patience and the ability to plan several steps ahead. I am not known for those characteristics.

I punched in the code. I waited for the airlock to open. It began--but then it stopped. I saw that the hull had become deformed so that the airlock door had jammed.

_ No! _

I attempted to insert my fingers into the narrow crack that had appeared and pulled--hard. I stopped only after all of the big muscles in my arms and chest began spasming, took a breath, and stepped back. 

_ Stupid, Gafinilan,  _ I reprimanded myself. I galloped back toward my ship.  _ Stupid! _  I had left my handheld Shredder weapon behind. Frantically, I searched the wreckage until I found it, along with the bandolier of fuel cells that must have fallen from my body when I morphed to  _ kafit _ . I returned to Mertil’s ship. This time, with my Shredder set to High, I was able to vaporize the recalcitrant door to the airlock. And I crawled…  _ sprawled _ inside.

At first I thought perhaps it was a dream. It could not be real. Mertil--caught in the crumpled remains of the ship’s cockpit, arms limp. Stalk eyes only half-closed, as occurs in unconsciousness or--or--

<No. No!>

The air inside of the ship smelled like Andalite grass. It smelled like the fragrance Mertil preferred in our home scoop and carried with him on missions in a small dispenser, so that it could waft throughout his ship. 

It also smelled like blood.

I fought my way in. Toward Mertil. I touched his skin. Warm! He was warm to the touch. I took no time. I began stripping the area of wreckage. When I had to, I vaporized small pieces of the ship with my Shredder. When I could not, when the work was too delicate, I used my hands. I had to stop several times because I was shaking. Probably not due to  _ Soola _ ’s disease. Most likely due to fear.

When I finally pulled Mertil free, I could not at first find the source of the blood pooling around my hooves. I had closed them, but still I tasted it. Blood. 

Mertil’s upper body was largely unharmed, save for some superficial burns and scratches from the ship’s fragmentation. Then I saw it. His back legs had been broken, one nearly shattered. The upper vertebrae of his tail hung at a terrible, unnatural angle. And his tail--his tail--

A section of his ship had fallen inward, similarly to mine. But where mine had created a space in which I had wedged myself, his had cut directly through the flesh of his tail, several feet before the blade. I had pulled him free gently, I could swear it. Could swear that I had felt no resistance or ripping… but the lower portion of his tail simply was not there. It had been crushed. Pulverized. All that was left was a stump, cauterized by the speed and force of the sharp metal’s impact. The blood was not coming from the stump. It was leaking from the crushed portion of his tail that had been flattened beneath the fallen piece of ship.

I felt sick. 

I picked him up. I gathered his body painstakingly in my arms and lifted him free of the wreck.

I lay him on the strange Earth grass, which tasted of chlorophyll, smoke, and local pollutants. I could not resist pausing to press one palm to his cheek. Then I ducked back into his ship to secure the medical equipment. I breathed a long breath of relief when I saw that his ship still had an intact auxiliary power source, a well as an emergency force field generator. Its medical kit was limited but adequate to handle fractures and abrasions. When I scanned his body, however, the scanner noted internal injuries that would require immobilization. 

I did not foresee too many difficulties there, as he was unconscious. But. Surely the Yeerks would explore the crash site soon. It was imperative to get him away from this artificial clearing and into the relative safety of deeper woods… supposing that these woods were safe. We had been briefed on flora and fauna native to this planet, but it was impossible to index it completely. Impossible! If our scanners had been close to accurate, this “Earth” had a biodiversity unique among discovered planets. And some of its animals--including its dominant sentient race, the humans--could be dangerous.

Carefully, carefully, I slid a mobile stretcher beneath him and allowed it to secure his body in a way that would not disturb his injuries. Carefully, I salvaged what equipment I could from the ship. And then I melted away into the woods, pushing Mertil gently alongside me, navigating around trees. Hoping that he would wake up. 

Fearing what would happen when he did.


	2. Chapter Two

Night came quickly on this fast-spinning planet. I continued to move through the woods. The artificially early sunset had upset my natural circadian rhythm, and I felt an oppressive fatigue and the slight paranoia that accompanies darkness for most Andalites. Mertil had not regained consciousness, in part due to the soporific effect of the drugs I had administered for his pain. I could, at least, feel his presence, drugged and weak but steady as a beating heart. He was alive.

He was…

He was a _vecol_.

You see, Mertil cannot morph. His body rejects the technology that allows most of the Andalite military to acquire the DNA of other species and take their form. There are others like him; it is not so rare a defect. It is far less serious than something like… for example... _Soola_ ’s disease. Not a defect at all, really, since the Andalite body is superior to the bodies of most other animals for most purposes.

There is just one problem. A side effect of the morphing technology is this: when you morph, you are able to recover any serious injuries, or even lost limbs.

Those who cannot morph… like Mertil….

He is very brave. Even knowing he faces more serious risk of injury than other pilots, he is nonetheless one of the most daring flyers. The maneuver he flew to rescue my ship was just the most recent example of his intrepidity. Like me, he professes not to fear death. Like me, I believe there is more he does not want to say. Or even think.

Mertil awoke on the third Earth day. I had barely left his side to graze in the small clearing I had located. I brought him water, dipping his hooves in so he could drink. I monitored his vital signs. I knew he was waking up before he did; the pattern of his gentle, background dream-thoughts seemed to scramble and then sharpen. The fuzzy haze that had gathered in the part of my mind usually occupied by his presence resolved into a growing awareness. Questioning.

<... Gafinilan?>

<Mertil.>

<We appear to be alive,> he said, in the tone he uses when proving me wrong about some assumption I have made.

<Yes,> I said.

There was a pause. His stalk eyes opened first, his large, brilliant green main eyes second. He examined his body with one stalk eye, taking in the apparatus immobilizing both of his torsos. I had created temporary casts for his hind legs and thickly bandaged his tail. But even the bandaging could not conceal the extent of the damage.

<Oh,> he said at last, with the same calm detachment he defaults to in combat. A kind of detachment that allows for utterly dispassionate, swift decision-making. Ancient Andalite warriors first cultivated this when practicing the tailblade-fighting arts. Now, it is recognized that some Andalites are more capable than others of attaining it due to their neural configuration. A biological quirk. It is one I do not share.

Mertil showed no emotion. No feeling. Simply the slow realization of his situation like the chill that creeps up through one’s hoof when one has immersed one’s leg in cold water.

At last, with strain in his thought-speak voice that weighed on me like a physical burden, he said, <Perhaps I spoke too soon.>

<Mertil-- >

The wave of carefully controlled feeling in his thought-speak silenced me. Again: like water, a wall of water sweeping away resistance. Somehow he had marshaled greater presence of mind within instants of being awake than I had in days. I saw him thinking of the beginnings of the death ritual. I saw him discard it. He sighed. His stalk eyes drooped. With a deliberate, painful motion, he lifted the arm not strapped to the stretcher and touched my side. Comforting me. As if I were the one who required comforting. He let his hand drop.

I tried again. <Mertil…>

<I knew it could happen at any time,> he said simply.

<Knowledge is not preparedness,> I said. This is a maxim we share with all _arisths_ who graduate the Academy to embark on their first tours of service.

<Where…> he paused. <The others? Prince Elfangor?>

<I saw the Dome detach and fall into Earth’s ocean. I have attempted to contact the fleet, but there is… no response. Your ship’s communicator was still functional. I attempted several… I believe the mission has failed. The fleet has either departed or been overcome.>

<The Yeerks?> he demanded, more urgently.

<Their communications, though untrustworthy, confirmed our fleet’s defeat. They did not manage to capture any of our warriors alive.>

<Ah.> Mertil slumped. Relief? Sorrow? Both. I could feel both.

<Our… our ships are damaged,> I said. <I have salvaged a power source, a forcefield generator, and some basic supplies. I believe the Yeerks have located the debris from the crash. We must evade capture. I believe these woods continue for some distance.>

Nearly a quarter of an hour passed in silence. Mertil’s mind moved in slow waves, lapping around the rocky outcroppings of our new reality.

Then he said, <How is the grass on this planet?>

<Not quite as rich as Andalite grass,> I said. I was aware my thought-speak voice sounded giddy with relief.

What Mertil did not say was: I will stay here with you. For you.

He did not say: I do not blame you for this.

Perhaps he did.

Or perhaps he blamed himself. For making the decision to break formation, to abandon the fleet and save me. I do not believe that it was an impulsive decision, in truth. I believe it was an inevitable one, as inevitable as the flow of water in the direction of gravity.

And just as inevitably, he knew that he could not abandon me now. Crippled, a _vecol_ , immobilized on a stretcher, stranded on an alien planet, Mertil realized that, nonetheless, I needed him more than he needed me.

* * *

 Our circumstances were desperate, dire. At the same time, I experienced peculiar moments of happiness. The plants and animals of Earth are, truly, wondrous. Tiny, delicate white flowers that remind me of our _uulsa_ blossoms. Large trees, some almost as overwhelming as those of the Hork-Bajir homeworld. Green plants with leaves that grew in impossibly detailed fractal patterns. Other plants that required no sunlight to grow, bulging out of the dark Earth soil. I could create such a garden on this planet….  

Small furry animals, some winged, some moving on four legs, most of them dappled in shades of brown or brown-and-white, with dark, liquid eyes. I acquired several types of creatures. On an alien planet, the power to morph would be essential to avoid detection. One of the creatures I acquired was an animal that carried its young in a small pouch and preferred to feed on carrion, with a twitching pink nose and a low-slung body and a naked, limp tail. Its form was revolting to me as an Andalite, but it was a convenient body for quiet exploration of the forest. I also acquired two varieties of bird after I stunned them with my Shredder. One was a large reddish bird that flew during the day and ate the insects out of tree trunks, making a loud, somewhat irritating percussive sound as it extracted its prey. The other, round-headed, round-eyed bird that flew at night and preferred to consume furry creatures similar to, but smaller than, my first Earth morph. I enjoyed this morph the most. Not only was the creature comfortable seeing and flying at night, it had the ability to rotate its head to obtain a nearly 360-degree field of vision. It was almost as good as being an Andalite.

Mertil healed slowly. After ten Earth days he was able to walk. He did not permit me to touch the bandaging on his tail. One day at sunset, I saw him perform the ritual that all _vecols_ undergo when they are to begin their seclusion.

<... let me be cleansed of my failures. For the good of the People,> he was saying. <I, Mertil-Iscar-Elmand, will act with what honor remains to me. As the withered branch must be cut, so I accept my solitude.>

He evaded my eyes even with his stalk eyes when I approached him, as custom demands. He attempted not to look at me. I did not let him. And of course he did not ask me to. You see, he had no right.

Mertil changed. He became quieter. Withdrawn. He carried the stump of his tail low, tucked against his body. We did not speak of it; of course not. On the Andalite homeworld no one speaks to a _vecol_. They are ignored, like an unpleasant smell in someone’s dwelling. Mertil and I spoke, however, of other things. The fauna of Earth. Mertil’s belief, which he submitted to me with uncharacteristic and uncomfortable humility, that I ought to attempt to acquire a human morph. The humans were, after all, the dominant animals of the planet. We had already narrowly avoided encounters with several humans stomping loudly along paths in the woods.

We decided that it would be more prudent if I approached any humans in one of my morphs. The presence of an alien might otherwise cause them to panic. In addition, we wished to ensure that we did not encounter any humans controlled by Yeerks. To that end, I located a human “camping ground” with several “cabins” available for public use. The cabins seemed to be a variety of temporary scoop and were apparently open to habitation to any human passerby. I found this custom somewhat disgusting, as an Andalite used to the sanctity of one’s home scoop, but for our purposes it was convenient. We were able to observe one human family with two small children, though we discarded them as a possibility because the children were exceptionally loud and undisciplined.

More promising were one of the camping ground’s next inhabitants. These appeared to be two human males and two human females, possibly in male-female mated pairs. They remained at the camping ground for five days, long enough for Mertil and I to satisfy ourselves that they were free of Yeerks. I noted that these humans frequently inhaled a strong-smelling plant after heating it to combustion. At one point, they also impaled white food objects on sticks and carbonized them, then consumed them.

Though I could understand their words, much of the context was lacking. I gathered that these students were members of a human educational institution known as “college.” The humans used many words that made no sense in context, such as ‘blitzed’ (my translator referred me to a historical document about a human war) and ‘stoned’ (my translator referred me to a passage from human religious literature). However, they seemed harmless and, in Mertil’s subtly offered opinion, unlikely to cause trouble to a talking animal who approached them.

<The plant they inhale during their evening ritual seems to have a mildly intoxicating effect,> he noted, having observed their behavior from a safe distance. <I suggest approaching them after they have performed the ritual and have become more relaxed.>

<That is a good idea,> I said.

<I have learned from experience. I know to approach _you_ with requests after you have consumed _illsipar_. > Mertil smiled. The expression around his eyes was faint and weary, and he kept his stalk eyes modestly cast aside, but it still made my hearts leap.

<That is very canny, Squad Commander,> I told him with mock-formality. I realized a beat later, as his smile faded, that this was a mistake. After all, we did not know if he retained his military title. As a _vecol_ , he should have been ceremonially released from service.

After that we remained silent. I prepared for my approach and Mertil moved away to graze and perform his evening ritual.

I chose the form of a bird for the approach. If need be, I could easily make an escape on my wings. Because it was evening, I selected the bird with the large eyes and rotating neck.

The humans paid no attention as I fluttered to roost on a branch near their fire. I waited until they had performed their ritual. Then I said, <Hello, humans. Do not be afraid.>

“Dude,” said one of the humans. “What?”

<It is I, the Earth bird.>

“Dude,” said another human. The term appeared to be a greeting or perhaps a particle used to preface speech. “I’m like… super tripping right now.”

“I think that owl just talked,” said the human who rested within the arms of the larger, possibly male human.

“Where did you get this shit?” asked the fourth human, picking up the curl of leaves they had discarded and examining it.

<I assure you, my presence is not an effect of your inhalant. Please, give me your attention.>

The humans stared at each other in apparent incomprehension. One emitted a loud, high-pitched, repetitive squealing sound. Very unpleasant to my bird’s ears.

<I require your aid.>

“I think the owl is talking to us.”

“Who?”

“Dude. The owl.”

“Who?”

The human emitted further squealing.

I thought of something. Perhaps I was prefacing my comments inadequately. I made another attempt.

<Dude!> I said loudly.

The humans abruptly silenced themselves. It was working. I continued. <I have appeared to you in the form of this Earth bird… the owl… because I believed it would startle you less than my true form.>

Now the humans regarded each other warily.

“Did you hear that?”

“Fuck. Did _you_ hear that?”

“Did the bird just call you ‘dude’?”

I sighed. Clearly more drastic measures were required. I fluttered down from the tree, landed several paces from the campfire, and demorphed.


	3. Chapter Three

The humans were not as surprised to discover the existence of aliens as I had assumed.

“That explains the Fermi Paradox,” said one of the human females. One of the human males wrinkled his face so that creases appeared between the lines of hair above his eyes, opened his mouth hole as if about to speak, and then shut it again.

They told me of their culture. “... So that’s the United States under late capitalism,” said the human male with long, stringy fur hanging over his otherwise naked face. “It’s like, all run by corporations and democracy is a farce. It’s like, neo-imperialism.”

I was more patient with their explanations than I usually am. I reached out to Mertil in thoughtspeak and was relieved when he responded. <It appears these humans are young,> he mused. <As such, their explanations may be distorted or uninformed. I infer, for example, that theirs is a social stratum of leisure and relative luxury. The humans are well-fed and clearly lack military discipline.>

I asked the humans about their military.

“Oh, yeah. We’re, like, a military superpower.”

<What percentage of your population is military?>

The humans exchanged blank looks. They professed not to know.

<Perhaps their military class is segregated from the civilian population,> Mertil remarked.

<Good insight,> I told him.

“.... talk about having a classless society, but it’s so not true,” the smallest human female was saying. “You don’t want to be non-white in this country, alien dude.”

I noted to myself and to Mertil that I should try to obtain a human morph that would blend with this ‘white’ human caste. Later I would have to discover what exactly this entailed. None of the humans appeared to be white in color. All four were shades of pink or taupe, apart from the loose coverings they used on their bodies.

I had at first conjectured that these were forms of fur, but the humans explained them as a protective adornment called clothing. I would need to obtain clothing to appear in human society. The humans claimed this clothing, like many other elements necessary for life on the planet, had to be purchased with currency.

“It’s all, like, made in sweatshops by Malaysian children,” said the stringy-furred human male.

<These humans are prone to broad generalizations,> Mertil mused. <It reminds me of certain students at the Academy I could name.>

The humans explained to me their ritual of shaking hands. I used the opportunity to acquire their DNA. I did not think it was necessary or prudent to explain what I was doing.

Once I had obtained all of the information from the humans that I could, I warned them to tell no one of my presence here. I intimated threats. I believe the humans respected them.

* * *

 Thereafter the task became simpler. I shadowed the campsite for several more weeks, obtaining the necessary supplies to pass for human. First I mildly Stunned several sleeping male humans who appeared close to middle age, acquired them, and performed the Frolis Maneuver. I have made a study of biology and am thus quite adept at this procedure. I created a human who was ‘white’ (pale pinkish taupe), with brown fur like most humans.

Next I observed a human male who appeared socially respectable. He had a mate and an adolescent child and spoke loudly of employment that kept him excessively busy. When the family departed the camp to walk along the paths carved into the woods, I infiltrated their cabin. I located the pack belonging to the human male and obtained garments. One garment worn over the upper torso, which had an emblem over the chest: three large, overlapping black circles. One pair of artificial hooves that were open at the top and sides and rather flimsy. And an article of clothing meant to cover the legs, which was decorated with flowers in bright, appealing colors. It came down only to my human knees, so it did not restrict my motion too much.

I also took the pack the human wore over his shoulders. It contained a number of items, most of which I removed. I had no way of knowing if these humans could track the magnetic rectangles within one compartment, for example, and wished to take no risks. The pack itself was made of a thick synthetic fabric and strongly resembled the back-mounted carrysacks Andalites use. Its label read Jansport, which I conjectured was one of the human corporations the youths had discussed. I transferred the power source and force field generator into the human bag for safer transport and discarded the last of our overtly Andalite equipment.

Thus disguised, I approached the nearest human city. Mertil followed.

<You are certain you are attired as a respectable human male?> he said.

<I obtained these garments from his supplies.>

<Yes,> Mertil said, <But I noted that most human males we have encountered seemed to prefer drab shades.>

<I believe this male is of a higher status than the others. Perhaps he is bold and eschews camouflage.>

The banter between us was almost as it had been before. I caught a glimpse of Mertil holding his… what was left of his tail… slightly higher than he had since the injury. I quickly turned my human main eyes away.

Mertil remained in the woods. I was thankful for our strong bond, however, which permitted me to thought-speak with him and share images as I moved into the crowded, claustrophobic city. My human body quickly began to emit moisture from beneath the arms, a disgusting and ineffective reaction to the heat. I was very glad that I had chosen the short, flowered lower garment instead of the long rough blue one I had considered..

My first mission was to acquire a human identity. The human building called a bank would allow me access to computerized records, as well as the all-important currency. I was stymied briefly by the function of the rotating panel that allowed entry and exit, but conquered it. Inside the bank, I could see glass-fronted cubicles and small terminals from which currency was dispensed. I also saw that the bank had posted hours of operation and would close in just over ninety human minutes.

I left the bank quickly, lest I arouse suspicion by lingering.

<I will demorph and return at night,> I told Mertil. He agreed that this was a good idea, noting that I should make sure they did not have security features beyond the primitive klaxon I had observed. I promised to do so.

I had my mission: penetrate the human bank. But I am shamed to admit that my attention was briefly distracted by a remarkable smell. Human food! It was far less interesting in Andalite form. But now I could smell a strong, spicy scent that caused the production of excess saliva in my human mouth.

A small human with wrinkled skin and black fur was pushing a cart laden with long brown sticks, partially wrapped in a whitish, flimsy material. I was overwhelmingly drawn to these pungent sticks. Perhaps the human noticed my presence.

“One dollar,” the human said, contorting his mouthparts into a smile. He shook one of the brown sticks at me.

I backed away. It took an enormous effort of will.

Later, I would return.

* * *

 <They are called churros,> I explained to Mertil.

<You have obtained your human identity?>

<Yes, yes.> I brushed this aside.

I had successfully infiltrated the bank. I had explored the primitive human computers, whose interface seemed nonetheless oddly familiar, almost similar in certain ways to Andalite technology. I had chosen a human name and identity based on a study of human demographics: I took care to select a name that was neither too rare nor too ubiquitous. A false name that is too common, like the Andalite name Esgarrouth, would of course also appear suspicious.

My human name was Henry McClellan. Both forename and surname appeared roughly midway down the list of names common in the United States of America. I also found them a pleasing combination of sounds to make with my human mouth.

I created a Social Security number for Henry McClellan after breaching the trivial defenses of the human government websites. I created educational records; humans also study biology and chemistry, as I did, though at a very primitive level, of course. I created a bank account, siphoning funds from the large corporations the first humans I had met had mentioned.

<Even humans do not respect these 'corporations,'> I told Mertil. <This is not a dishonorable act>

I made certain to siphon money from the corporation whose mark appeared on my human garment. The three circles, I learned, were a hieroglyph signifying ‘Disney Corporation.’ It appeared to be a significant force in the society of the United States.

I permitted Henry McClellan’s account to accrue several million dollars, enough to purchase a respectable human dwelling and retain money for both additional supplies and the status humans confer on those who possess sums of money. I would be able to construct a scoop for myself and Mertil if my human dwelling were large enough. I could make a home for us on this alien planet.

Also… I now had enough money to purchase churros.

Churros!

How can I explain the ecstasy of the human churro?

<I attempted to bring you one, but I consumed it,> I admitted to Mertil. I had thought he might ingest it through a hoof.

<I am sure you were better able to appreciate it in your human form,> Mertil said.

I agreed that this was probably true. We moved off to graze and discuss the next phase of my plan to integrate myself into human society. That evening, we slept close together, chests touching, with Mertil looking over my shoulder with his stalk eyes and I, looking over his. For some time, however, neither of us truly managed to fall asleep.

I had never before pitied Mertil for his inability to morph. After all, flying a fighter plane is far more exciting than flying in _kafit_ morph. But now, as I contemplated our predicament on this alien planet, I felt a twinge of… something. Was it pity? Anger? Sorrow?

On our home planet, Mertil was always more social. I am short-tempered and require time alone. On this alien planet, Mertil would of course be unable to mingle with any of the human population, even if he did not face the compulsory isolation of a _vecol_.

It is a disconcerting feeling, pitying one’s mate. Especially because he could feel the echo of it too.

 


	4. Chapter Four

Even though I had great quantities of human money, it occurred to me early on that I would have to obtain a job. Mertil and I discussed various possibilities.

<Ideally I will want access to facilities for research,> I said. <As primitive as these humans are, they do have some implements and materials I would like to use, and other paraphernalia I can remove from the location and use to assemble a home laboratory.> I had been engaged in research in biochemistry and genetic manipulation on the homeworld. It had begun as a perhaps misguided, perhaps hopeless, attempt to research _Soola_ ’s disease. Slowly it had become a genuine interest. Indeed, originally I had grumbled at the Andalite military’s new focus on turning out well-rounded warriors--those who were also poets and artists. Though I enjoy cultivating a garden, I do so for very concrete reasons. My Andalite instincts drive me to appreciate nature. Poetry? I fail to see what is natural about poetry. Mertil disagrees. But Mertil appreciates poetry because he is skilled at it.

Of course, he argues that I fail to appreciate poetry because I myself lack skill. We have reached stalemate there.

<Human universities appear to be where they conduct most research,> Mertil said.

We had obtained a television. Mertil and I watched it often. Its rich audiovisual output provided a very complete picture of life in human society.

<Yes. The University of California, Santa Barbara,> I said. I had brought a pamphlet advertising this institute back to our temporary scoop. Both of us were becoming uneasy in these surroundings. We would have preferred a more permanent location. However, we would need to wait until I got my job. Many humans speak of the displeasure at a “long commute”--and certainly given human transport options I can see why they would. The two-hour morphing limit added to the difficulty of being temporarily trapped in one of their chemical engine machines.

<That seems an excellent option. I note that human universities appear to be places where much eccentricity is forgiven.>

We had viewed a segment of historical footage entitled _Animal House_.

<It seems eccentricity is forgiven at every level of human society,> I pointed out.

<Yes, though they appear less forgiving of even minor physical differences among their species,> Mertil said. There was no bitterness or irony in his tone. <Humans who are unusually short or tall are mocked. So are those lacking appropriate configurations of fur. Minute differences in shades of skin are also the cause of caste differentiation.>

<Andalites at least accept natural variation. These humans are backwards.>

<They are different,> Mertil allowed.

<They smell like _flaar._ I want a bath every time I morph. >

<You are only happy when complaining.>

I was silent and pretended to be brooding over the insult, though in fact I was jubilant that he felt increasingly free to tease me.

I said, <You should try it sometime.>

He said, <You do not wish to hear my complaints.>

I could not read what he was thinking. He drowned it out in a white roar like the cascade of a waterfall. I was shaken, and I turned even my stalk eyes away.

Mertil can become angry, just as I can. It was his reaction to learning that I had _Soola’s_ , which I told him naively when I was not even two years old. He had said, with great confidence, that our people would surely find a cure. And he had said that if they did not, he would put some tail into them until they worked harder. As a child, Mertil had a simplistic candor that I enjoyed. As an adult, Mertil is no longer simple and no longer candid, but he has added to his natural righteousness some of the fighter pilot’s arrogance. We all secretly believe that our might will make us right. Even me.

It can make acceptance difficult. Even now, knowing that it was likely hopeless to assume I could search for a cure to my disease or (a more distant, desperate dream) Mertil’s allergy, I went to Santa Barbara to accept the job of Assistant Professor of Biochemistry.

I worked for a full professor named James White. Despite the name, this human was one of those considered “black,” with his head unsettlingly shorn of fur and skin that was to my eyes the same shade as that of the human from whom I purchased my churros. I noted him as an example of times when human culture could be uncharacteristically meritocratic. After all, they allowed a human of the lower, black caste to run the biochemistry department of a major learning institute; he had obtained many commendations for his intellectual work. Yet, at the same time, many humans expressed open prejudice toward other members of this caste. Humans are complex. And often contradictory.

I came prepared to my first meeting with Professor White. I presented myself with the standard human greeting. “Dude,” I said, “It is a pleasure to meet you. I have heard many good things about you from my former colleagues.” I seized his hand and shook it firmly in my strong human one.

Professor White had moved the lines of hair above his eyes so that one was higher than the other. I made a note to see if I could do this myself. “Yes, you also come highly recommended,” he said.

I should clarify at this point. I broke with protocol to visit the home of one of my former “colleagues.” I threatened him with a beam weapon until he wrote me a recommendation letter. It was very satisfying. I have often wished I could do the same in order to manipulate the Andalite military’s ponderous and at times nonsensical system of promotions.

I did not tell Mertil of this action, which I realize was quite dishonorable. He probably knew anyway.

“Dude, I am eager to hear more about your stem cell research,” I said. Andalites were able to make important breakthroughs once they began this line of experimentation.

“Ah, well,” Professor White said, waving a hand. “Given the legal battles, we may not be able to pursue that. You know how it is.”

I nodded cautiously, pretending that I did, indeed, know how “it” was.

He peered at me cautiously. “Are you, uh, a religious man, Mr. McClellan?” He appeared to put emphasis on my human name, and I wondered if it came from a lineage dedicated to some order I had been unaware of. Humans still follow primitive deistic religions. “I apologize if that’s an offensive question. Of course we didn’t consider that as part of your hiring.”

“No, I am not,” I said at last, deciding to be honest about this at least.

“Ah.” He seemed to relax and gave a faint smile. “Yes. Well.” He made a gesture I did not understand.

The conversation turned to my job specifications. I was candid: “I have been told that my weakness is a lack of patience with those slow to learn.” In fact this was a verbatim quote from a transcript regarding my interview for the position of Squad Commander--a position that had gone, deservedly, to Mertil instead. “I prefer research to working with students.”

Professor White chuckled. “Don’t we all. I’m afraid, though, that was the newest faculty member we’re going to be throwing you to the wolves for a couple of terms.”

I was briefly alarmed before realizing it was of course a figure of speech.

“I know it’s last-minute, but we still have the syllabus and curriculum for the 102 class from last year. It is a lab class, so make sure you familiarize yourself with the facilities. One of the TAs can show you around.”

He gave me a primitive set of keys. And thus I obtained access to the biochemistry facilities of the Santa Barbara University.

I met the TA, a young female human named Mariko--an almost Andalite name, close to the one which refers to the large, purple-red bloom that appears on young _derrishoul_ trees. She was pleasant but unusually outspoken for someone in a position of inferiority. She asked me what would have been uncomfortable personal questions to an Andalite, such as “How long have you lived in the area? Do you have family here?” She continued by volunteering equally unseemly details about herself, such as: “My parents moved here from San Fran when I was four, but I still go back there to visit my grandparents because my dad says no way we’re putting them in a home…”

“I am alone,” I told Mariko. My human heart seemed to beat raggedly for a moment, alarming me. I went on. “However, I am searching for a domicile.”

“Oh,” she said. “Well, uh, I have a cousin who’s a real estate agent? Maybe he can help. Housing prices are crazy, but that’s California for you.”

“Dude,” I told her, completing the human ritual I had witnessed on television, “Tell me about it.” Humans who say this do not literally wish the other human to recount anything.

Mariko gave an unsettling human laugh, showing many sharp teeth. “I think we’re going to get along, Prof.”

“Certainly,” I said, “Provided that you do as I say and preside over sixty percent of my lecture classes.” As she appeared taken aback, I added, “Dude.”

Mariko and I in fact developed a relationship of mere tolerance. I did appreciate that she introduced me to the human beverage coffee. It is excellent with churros. She expressed displeasure that I consistently asked her to procure me more of this coffee.

“Typical male behavior,” she grumbled.

I deduced that human females expect equal status with human males, but were not accustomed to experiencing it in actuality. In truth, this is a debate carried out in Andalite society as well. Many claim that females are naturally more skilled at science, art, and mathematics, but less skilled at military pursuits. Some claim--to my way of thinking nonsensically, given the difference in physiology and tailblade size--that there is no such division. I noticed that at the human university there were more female students overall but more science students who were male--a different division. And, indeed, the females are smaller and softer in build, and males dominate their military as well. Similar to Andalites, but different. However, I tried not to intrude upon human gender conflict. I no longer asked Mariko to procure me coffee. Instead, I purchased a coffeemaker for my office, which I generously allowed her to use.

I obtained a house. Mariko’s cousin was surprised when informed of Henry McClellan’s budget. But I quickly realized that humans, while obsessed with currency, found it gauche or awkward to speak directly about it. I let him speculate as to the source of my comparative wealth. The house we ultimately purchased had an extensive subbasement that I could easily modify to contain an underground habitable terrain. It even had an adjoining greenhouse in which I could cultivate Earth plants. It was not too far from the Santa Barbara campus. I purchased a car, one called a Jeep Grand Cherokee, and asked that it be painted a pale blue. I preferred it to the smaller, more cramped models offered by the salesman. This car would never be anything like my beloved fighter plane, but nonetheless I named her. I named her for my sister: Arrila. My sister and I never got along. She is quite temperamental.

Remembering the pleasure of my office coffee-making machine, I quickly installed a full kitchen in my human house. Mertil came cautiously up from our hidden room to survey the new appliances after I finished unpacking them and arranging them precisely as they had been arrayed in the mall demonstration kitchen.

<So primitive! Simple socket-and-plug electric current technology… amazing.> Mertil touched appliance after appliance, intrigued by their function. <Why do we need so many implements for pulverizing food?>

<Kitchen implements are a status symbol among humans. In addition, I believe there is a departmental potluck to which I am expected to bring a dish I create myself. I had to ensure that I had adequate means to do so.>

<A potluck?>

<A ritual human gathering centered on the consumption of shared food. Like grazing parties, I assume.>

<Oh. Yes. So you will lurk under a tree and decline to share your _illsipar_ with others? > Mertil always liked grazing parties more than I did.

<That was one occasion.>

<It’s true. Another time you simply insulted one of the most renowned poets on the planet.>

< _You_ did not see the direction of his stalk-eyes.>

Mertil smiled and moved his own stalk eyes suggestively. I reciprocated. We remained in the kitchen for longer than was prudent before continuing our survey of the house. I would have been concerned about passersby, but I had already installed the force field and a small hologram generator.

After we had finished surveying the kitchen, Mertil trotted past me to peer into the living room, the part of the human scoop designated for leisure pursuits. The one human pursuit I truly approved of is human television. We had a large monitor in the living room and I had purchased eight more for Mertil in our true home beneath.

<It is very….> Mertil paused, stalk eyes scanning the plush white artificial grass and the pale pink furnishings I had selected. <... pink,> he said at last.

<Of course human dwellings are pink,> I said. <Like Andalites, they want to blend with their surroundings.>

I like to think I did. Blend with my surroundings, that is. I like to think that the reason I spent so much time in morph as Henry McClellan was for the purpose of keeping our cover strong. If I appeared often as a human, few would suspected I was an Andalite. After all, what Andalite would choose to live this way? Despite the intense sensory pleasure of food, despite the momentary enjoyment of strong human arms or an encounter with a human student who was less than usually dim… it was a primitive, stunted half-a-life. No Andalite would choose it.

I like to think that, but it is partially a lie. The truth is this. I was nine years old. I was well past the age at which _Soola_ ’s disease becomes symptomatic. I could not easily hide my pain from Mertil, though I tried.

I awoke one night with my muscles in spasm. I caught myself thinking… yearning, even… to morph. But I thought of Mertil. I thought of his desire to have what he never could, not even for a moment.

Mertil was awake, too. Perhaps he found the white walls and blue ceiling of our underground scoop confining. I myself hesitated at choosing these colors, as I prefer the red and gold of Andalite skies. But Mertil said, <Let us not make a sham of the place we find ourselves. I prefer to remember I am not at home.>

Now, awake, waiting for the spasm that shook my body to still, he closed his stalk eyes and met my main eyes with his. It is a very intimate way for two Andalites to look at each other. Very vulnerable. It is a signal that you care to see nothing but each other, not even some danger that might approach. Very romantic, in truth. Mertil did this often to me when we were adolescents first falling in love. Now it had different connotations.

<You know,> Mertil said softly, after a moment, <the Yeerks have a form of torture. You remember when we studied their techniques?>

<I think so.> Mertil always paid more attention to our studies than I did. At the moment I could not recall exactly to which lesson he referred. I was dazed, groggy, and in residual pain. Only the tractor-beam force of his eyes on mine kept me tethered to conciousness.

<They use a form of our _Narsif_ device to manipulate physiological responses.> This device is one we use for creating immersive simulations; it works directly on the brain to evoke affective states. <They can create overwhelming pleasure. They can create overwhelming pain. The apex of their torture is to alternate the two. Pleasure. Pain. It can drive one mad.>

I paused, coming back to myself. Slowly. So slowly. <We are already a little mad, my _shorm_ ,> I said. I echoed his own earlier, wry comment: <Let us not make a sham of the place where we find ourselves.>

Mertil blinked his main eyes slowly, for an instant blind to the world. Then he opened both main eyes and stalk eyes, focusing them intently on my face. <You could remain a human.>

I touched his cheek. <No,> I said. <I cannot.>

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Endless thanks to betas [Cavatica](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Cavatica/pseuds/Cavatica) and [LilacSolanum](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LilacSolanum/pseuds/LilacSolanum). Not only are you two my guiding lights in this strange new fandom; you are also consistent sources of inspiration and delight. (Everyone, go read their fic if you haven't already).


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